Oh, the Glorious
by Shatter Brained
Summary: Sirius thinks about the seasons. SBRL; MWPP Era


**A/N: **I've been sitting on this story for quite a while now, and I've finally decided to post it. There are going to be four parts to it--one, of course, for each of the seasons. It's in a bit of a run-on format, seeing as it's a collection of Sirius's thoughts throughout the course of a year. Since the moments he's recalling aren't technically flashbacks, I don't think that it's necessary to put them in italics. I've tried to define the present from the past as best as possible, but if there is any confusion, let me know. Reviews are not only welcome but particularly crucial, when it comes to this story. I'm fiddling with a more experimental sort of writing, and therefore any constructive criticism you may have is encouraged. (: I really do hope that you enjoy this piece. Personally, I believe it's some of my best writing, to date. But maybe that's just me.

Also, as I've said in my profile, I just recently started a blog where I put information on story updates, etc. as well as playlists for each of my stories. The link to this blog is on my userpage. The only song for this story, as of now, is the one for which it is named--_Oh, the Glorious _by Brett Dennen. A lot of inspiration went into this piece, though, so there will be more to come as I progress with the story.  
-Carli

xxxxx

Have you ever really paid attention to the wild cycles you tumble through, during the year? As each season comes to pass, you change. Not in a chaotic way, either; but in a ridiculously and lovably predictable manor that only I seem to be able to track. I thrive upon the intolerability of your emotions, and for that you are most definitely lucky. You're lucky that I love you, Moony; even though sometimes I'd like nothing better than to tackle you (and not in the good way, either) to the ground. You're lucky that I love you, and I'm more than lucky that you love me right back. I'm fucking gracious, you know. One might even stretch to say that I'm blessed. I've never really been blessed before, but when I've got a tremendously adorable boy snuggling up to my side; what other word is there to describe it?

The train has barely started moving under our feet, and already you're cuddled up next to me; pulling your overlarge sleeves so that they cover all ten of your thin fingers, and letting your head fall gracefully onto my shoulder. You do it because you know you can; even though James and Peter are making all the jokes they can scrounge up, so as to keep themselves from thinking about it too much. You know that I'll let you do next to anything, and so you take liberties with your privileges. You test my limits. I give you nothing but patience in return, because I know I'll only be a hypocrite if I protest.

Even though the heat of the early-afternoon sun is seeping through the glass windows like water—pouring over our trunks and shoes and the sleeping form of Peter—you huddle close to me, pulling your knees into your chest and crawling deeper into the warmth of my robes. You're always so cold, and I never know whether or not I'm doing enough to help you. Summer Moony is so fragile.

The delicacy of the sight—your eyelids barely open, a smile ghosting your lips as you wrap yourself in my robes and bury your face in my stomach—reminds me of all of the times I've spent protecting you. I love taking care of you, even though you hate to feel weak. I remind you time and time again that you've never been anything close to weak. You're strong and beautiful and I love you just the way you are. But still, you insist that you are feeble. I don't think I'll ever be able to change that.

"Sirius?" You ask me, one night. The four of us are gathered at the Potter's in bitter celebration of my escape from Grimmuald Place, and Peter and James are snoring on the floor of the plush guest room. You and I were stuck sharing the bed. I don't think James ever really understood what he did for us, that night.

"Sirius, I'm so glad you're finally here," you mutter, your lips curling into the tiniest of smiles—so tiny, in fact, that I have to touch my shaking lips to your own in order to feel it. It's the first time that we've ever kissed, but you don't start. You don't jump out of the covers, and your eyes don't snap open. It's the first time we've ever kissed, but it made more sense than anything had that night; and we both know it. We both know that it belongs, and so you don't act even remotely surprised. I'm not even hurt when you fall asleep seconds later, but instead relieved. You're exhausted. Curled up under the oversized duvet; your eyelids flutter closed. Your breathing steadies, and I watch over you as you sleep. Nothing hurts you that night—not even your dreams.

Soon it's practically customary for us to share a bed. Every time we board at James' for the holidays, we sleep on the mattress, and he and Peter kip on the floor. Even back in the dorms, we've devised a system. I always thought that my bed was a bit ragged; and yours smells like Moony, which isn't really a bad smell at all. It smells like vanilla and warmth and those silly cinnamon cakes that your mum sends you every week, as reward for your persistent top-marks. You, for some reason, like the feel of my old and musty sheets. It's no use telling you that they're completely rank, because you'll simply shoot me those pouty, pleading eyes and curl up next to my pillow. You do it because you know you can, and I'm not looking to correct you. So we sleep in your bed one night, mine the next. James and Peter roll their eyes at us, but we just give them two fingers in return. They don't really understand us, but as James so blatantly put it, "As long as your shagging and whatnot doesn't interfere with our schedule, you're free do to whatever you want." Our "schedule", in his eyes, consists of a few fundamental things: Pulling as many pranks as possible, helping him in his efforts to woo Lily Evans, and making the life of one Severus Snape absolutely and completely miserable. And so, we were sure to plan our shagging and whatnot around such activities. After all, one must have their priorities, right Moony?

The trolley lady comes along around noon, wheeling snacks and candies through the corridors and popping her old head in to see if we want anything. She spots you, gently asleep on my shoulder, one hand idly stroking my kneecap and the other lolling over the edge of the seat; and she smiles.

"I'll stop by later than, shall I?" she whispers, and I nod. But before she can leave, I buy you a chocolate frog—the only writhing thing, you told me once with a grimace to rival that of Severus Snape; that you would _ever_ put in your mouth. And then I looked at you and you looked at me and I waggled my eyebrows in that way that always made you blush and we both burst into a fit of laughter that no one could really understand but us.

I remember, in the very beginning of our fourth year, when we were learning about those wretched Azkaban guards—dementors, they're called; those awful, awful things. Professor Keller had brought one in, much to the distaste of Professor Dumbledore, under the circumstances that it only be around for a day, and it would not be allowed out of the classroom. You nearly fainted when you walked into the room, and I had to catch you under the armpits so that you didn't hit your head on the concrete floor. You blushed so deep a crimson that it caused James to give us _that look_ again, and I propped you up in a chair before hurrying off to chide him for being a prat. Next period, you were still feeling a bit off, and Binns suggested that I take you to the infirmary. So I grabbed you around the waist and you stumbled out of the classroom behind me, babbling all the way to Gryffindor tower about how ridiculous you felt and how you really thought that you could have handled the stupid thing had it not been so close to the full moon and _really, Sirius, you can let go of me now._ We spent the rest of the day playing Exploding Snap and eating chocolate frogs, with me throwing a badly aimed hex or two at anyone who dared comment about your weaknesses.

"Even though it's none of your business, you bloody nosy snotrags," I shouted, standing on top of the coffee table with you tugging at my pant leg, begging me to get down. "Remus is braver than all of you stupid sods put together. It's just that he's been feeling a bit ill lately, and perhaps he'd be feeling better if you lot weren't all pressing your stupid ugly faces in on him. So either you leave the both of us alone, or I shove one of these cards so far up your arse that when it explodes, it'll rocket you all the way to effing _Jupiter_." I started to step off the table, but thought it best to add a "thank you" before sitting down again. People always seemed to respond better when I asked nicely.

You, however, completely blanched the moment I looked at you; grinning toothily and ready to hear a swooning song of appreciation. "Sirius," you said calmly, though I could see you gritting your teeth in frustration. My smile fell, and I realised that perhaps I shouldn't have shouted so loudly. You never seemed to like it when I made a scene, but I kept doing it anyway, until you recognised that I was doing it entirely for you. "Sirius, don't do that. You're embarrassing me."

I unwrapped a chocolate frog and popped it in your mouth, ruffling your golden hair affectionately as I stood up, checking my watch and realising that James and I had less than ten minutes to get to McGonnagal's office, to serve our sixth consecutive detention that week. You rolled your eyes as I slung my knapsack over my shoulder airily, but I saw you smile ever so slightly—you hated being fragile, but you loved it when I took care of you. I could see it in your eyes, the way that you would glare at me when I decided to tuck you in at night; pseudo hatred masking amusement as I made sure that you couldn't roll left or right, and that your feet were nice and cosy. I dropped another frog box into your lap as I cupped my hand around my mouth, amplifying my voice—though it barely need it, I must say—to reach James's ears, a few feet away. "OI. JAMESY," I shouted, startling a few first years into a corner and making Peter fall out of his armchair. "WE HAVE TO GO AND VISIT MCGOOGLES."

And I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the way that you ducked your head in a shamefully adorable giggle. The curve of your soft, pink lips and the vaguely off-centre dimples faded as fast as they had sprung to life; but your eyes still sparkled with laughter as you nabbed your Arithmancy book from the coffee table and opened it up in your lap. I always loved making you laugh; if not just to see that split-second's bliss take over your face then to hear the soft, Prefect-perfect sound that emitted from your lips. Like bells, Christmastime, and that thick, emerald green sweater that your mum knitted me for my birthday: warmth and happiness in a light coating of simplicity.

I feel your weight shift as your eyes flutter open; feel your muscles clench as you try and fail to stifle a monstrous yawn. It's getting darker now, and James and Peter have taken to playing a game of Gobstones on the floor of the compartment; even though they roll this way and that with the sporadic jostling of the train—they're not really even playing, anyway, so much as tricking the pieces into squirting each other at random. I hold out the chocolate frog, smiling as you unwrap it lazily. Popping the frog into your mouth, you toss the card into Peter's lap and stand up, stretching your arms above your head and letting loose another yawn. My eyes skirt along the hem of your shirt as it rises a few centimetres above your belt. The milky white skin of your stomach makes the corners of my mouth twitch into an adoring smirk, and I can feel James' eyes watching me as I watch you. Measuring me, I know, just as he's been doing for the past year. Ever since the incident with Snape, he's been so ridiculously wary of me—even after you so wonderfully, fantastically, _unbelievingly_ forgave me; he's still taken it as his personal responsibility to ensure that I don't muck anything up.

"You fucking sod," I remember him saying. "Do you have _any idea _what could've happened, out there?" I just stared at him, dumbfounded and dry-mouthed; picking at the seam of your pillowcase, cross-legged on the floor between your bed and my own. I swallowed thickly, but didn't answer. James held the bridge of his nose between his fingers, sighing with exasperation and no doubt doing all he could to keep himself from knocking my teeth out. "For one, Snape could have died. Not that that should weigh on your conscience, or anything, seeing as it's just Snivellus," he shot me a disgusted look, and I shrivelled completely.

"Prongs," I croaked. "Prongs, don't say it like that. You know that's not—"

"No, _Sirius_," he shouted, and I couldn't even stand to look at him then: it was as if he was boring a hole straight into the centre of my being, and wasn't at all pleased with what he had found. "I _don't_ know. I don't know what you were thinking, and frankly, I don't know who you are, anymore. Snape aside, you could've got _Remus_ killed, Sirius. If he would have bit Snape, it would have been his head; and you _knew that_. You knew that, and yet you still led the greasy bastard down there! I don't know what the hell has got into you, Sirius."

I didn't eat for three days. I remember lying in bed for hours, watching the hands of your bedside clock tick routinely. James didn't talk to me after that first night; and Peter, as could be expected, followed suit. A week later, to the protests of nearly everyone in Gryffindor Tower (none of whom knew what had happened, of course, but all fully aware that I had fucked up yet again); I went to visit you in the infirmary.

It was completely and utterly awful. Your curtains were drawn back, as it was noontime and I suspect that the mediwitch had just recently brought you something to eat. But you didn't look up to eating—gauze cradled the left side of your head, and deep scratches littered your bare neck and chest. The moment you saw me coming, you seized completely. Your eyes, tentative and full of heart-wrenching confusion at my betrayal, followed me warily as I approached your bedside. I wanted to scoop you into a hug, but I didn't think it appropriate. Nor would it be so to joke with you, feed you the forgotten sandwich on your bedside table, or beg for your forgiveness. I had to fight myself not to do all four at once, and instead ended up falling to my arse in the centre of the aisle-way and sobbing unabashedly into the palms of my hands until I was ushered out of the hospital wing by a disgruntled Madam Pomfery.

The next few months passed without much change. I don't think I've ever waited for anything as long as I pined for your forgiveness. You were so lost, so fragile, and there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it. Summer melted into fall and fall eased into winter before you learned to trust me, again. I never deserved anything less, in my life.

"It's five o' clock," James piped up, bringing my thoughts to a halt as I nodded. You had already pulled your robes over your head, your shiny Prefect's badge pinned to the front of your lapel.

"Alright, well, I'll see you lot at the feast then." I grab your hand as you reach the compartment door, and you shoot me a confused look before I stifle it with a quick kiss. Peter gags on his third Fizzing Whizbee, and James mimes vomiting into my trunk; but I ignore them. The soft curve of your lips is well worth the taunting I'm going to have to endure, once you leave with your Prefect badge and your Prefect smile and your Prefect laugh to do some stupid, Prefectly things. My shoulder tingles to life for the first time since we left King's Cross, and I miss you before you're even out the door.


End file.
